


The Horse-Lovers

by TAFKAB



Series: Bird in a Gilded Cage [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beards (Relationships), Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Gender Roles, Het and Slash, Heteronormativity, Incest, Injury, Injury Recovery, Internalized Sexism, Issues of Succession, M/M, Manipulation, Monarchy, Multi, Pre-Canon, Pressure to Marry, Pressure to reproduce, Primogeniture, References to Bestiality, References to large-group sex, Sexism, Sibling Incest, Social Issues, Witchcraft, institutionalized sexism, Éomer is as clueless as the day is long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 23:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12444030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Pre-LOTR Rohan:As she matures from a carefree tomboy into a beautiful young woman, Éowyn has become a deeply unhappy person.  She is beset on every side by engrained cultural sexism and her own biological urges-- yet she is deeply repelled by the few roles available to women in her culture.With only her well-meaning male oppressors to turn to and to love, Éowyn is nevertheless prepared to violate any and every social and sexual taboo she knows in a desperate attempt to escape the cage of sexist expectations and loathsome gender roles closing in around her.Éowyn is not alone in her discontent; Théodred too is dissatisfied with his lot in life for reasons he has not chosen to share.Baffled, yet trying to care for his beloved kin in the only ways he knows how, a reluctant and clueless Éomer is dragged into their attempts to resolve their problems.





	The Horse-Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been looking for an Éomer story bunny for a long time, but despite repeated requests for Aragorn/Éomer/Faramir, this is the only thing my muses would produce.
> 
> WARNING: The tags aren't kidding. **Explicit sibling and cousin incest, intense references to male horse/female human bestiality, intense references to large-group-of-males/one female sex. If these things are potentially dealbreakers for you, you should bail out _right now_ and choose another story.** If you choose to continue reading anyway, don't blame me if you get into something that makes you feel uncomfortable.

Éomer wasn’t sure quite when his sister stopped being a gangly, coltish little pest and started becoming even more troublesome in quite a different, far more disturbing way.

It was a good while after both their parents died, of course-- both of them running wild at Edoras, coming up in their uncle’s house. They were the never-ending bane of Théodred, who was in line to be king and suffered great trials in his education and training. At seventeen years Éowyn’s elder, he seemed unimaginably stodgy and old to them both-- decrepit, practically. As adolescents, Éomer and Éowyn enjoyed bedeviling him at his studies-- shooting chewed leaf at his neck through bits of straw, making his horse dance at inconvenient moments, sabotaging his tack in a thousand aggravating ways… such mischief as spirited children inevitably do.

Yet not long after Éowyn turned 18, Éomer realized that she had set her cap for their cousin, and that Théodred himself was far from unaware of her charms. Now when she walked by-- always ensuring that the sun was at her back if she were wearing a thin cotton shift or dress, so the lines of her body would show, clean and lithe as a filly bred for racing-- Théodred’s neck would redden with embarrassment and he would bend over his book or his sharpening stone or his currycomb and pretend not to notice.

Their uncle, too, noticed this, but held his peace; it seemed he would not be averse to a union between the two, and so Éomer was silent and did not gainsay his sister.

It made a man look rather differently at his little sister, to see her stop running from-- or with-- the boys and start running toward them. He would see Éowyn at times attempting to distract Théodred, and his own ears would color crimson, leaving him stammering with vexation. 

“Why do you haunt our cousin’s steps?” He demanded of her one day. “He has troubles of his own.”

“Théodred has no wife,” she said, implacable. “And I will not be the thick-ankled mistress of a farmer, my realm his miserable cot, my breasts hanging to my knees, sucked dry by a multitude of filthy, ragged children before I am thirty!” There was a sudden, virulent bitterness in her he had not noticed before, not when she was a merry child, busy toddling around the stable-yards, currying horses as high as she could reach or when she was a growing girl, demanding to ride a stallion Théoden said was far too hot for her, not when she sneaked around and proved him wrong, and not when she was a leggy tomboy who could ride as hard and as far as Éomer himself, though he was four years her senior; not when she ran and rode with the young bucks, as like them as he. No, it was a new thing-- born, perhaps, of the same instinct that drove her toward Théodred. 

She would be a queen, Éomer perceived, and indeed, he could wish nothing less for her. But he was uneasy, and so he brooded on her bitterness, and he watched her one-sided courtship of Théodred, who had been trained in everything except the ways of love, it seemed. Éomer himself had bedded a lass while still in his teens, but it seemed Théodred would rather face an orc without his breeches on than a girl. 

“Take heart, cousin,” Éomer advised him. “A girl is a trial, and yet such a trial is a more pleasant problem than orcs and wargs.”

“I am unsure of that,” Théodred laughed. “You should hear your sister talk!”

Éomer was young, but he was a son of noble rulers, and thoughtful enough to pay heed to the warning. He began to listen to Éowyn, alerted by both their older cousin and her fey anger, and was surprised by what he heard.

“It is said that during the dark days, before Gondor rose to power in the east, Rohan was different,” he heard her murmuring and stopped outside her door. She was writing in a small book, printing carefully upon the leaves. “With arcane rituals to ensure the fertility of the land and the strength of horses and men. One day if Gondor falls we may have need of these rituals again, and there are those among us who have not forgotten them. They are still practiced in secret that we may not wither.”

“What are these rituals you speak of?” Éomer revealed himself in her doorway. Her lips thinned and she looked at him through sober gray eyes, wary as a deer ready to bolt from the huntsman. “Bloodletting and sacrifice, like the Hill-men yet do in their secret caves under the mountains?”

“I speak not so.” She laid down her quill with care, yet he sensed her pique in the very deliberation of her movement. “Our own family has practiced one of these rituals at least; Hollis of Morton has told me so.”

“Hollis is a witch.” Éomer shifted, uneasy. 

“She is a wise woman, a healer,” Éowyn replied, voice hot. “She knows much lore of the old days.”

“And what ritual did our family practice, according to this witch?”

She eyed him, eyes gleaming, considering her answer well before speaking. “A ritual for purification of the line. Our father perceived it to be in danger of failing; we had kept ourselves too long apart from that which defines us.”

“The line of Éorl is in no danger.” He folded his arms and leaned on the door frame.

“Perhaps that is due to the ritual of which I speak. If you would know more, come in and close the door,” Éowyn said, her voice brittle. 

He did so, though it made him uneasy-- as if he were now trapped in a coop with Hollis herself, a withered old crone with bad teeth and a piercing eye who was prone to give purging draughts, a most unpleasant experience indeed.

“When Théodred was born, Elfhild died in the bearing,” she said softly. “Yet our uncle took no new wife. Hollis noted this, and so she went to our mother. You were growing, nearing four years of age, and her womb had not kindled with another child. Hollis promised her a child through this ritual, one who would ensure the future of the House of Éorl.”

Her words unsettled him; was he not the scion of Éomund? Did Éowyn mean to threaten that he would die having sired no offspring to bear the line forward? He would have words with Hollis for this, and his uncle would, as well. “You speak folly.”

Éowyn scoffed. “Listen if you would know, for if you continue to scorn me, I will not speak.” She tossed back her hair, eyes glinting with anger. “In the old times, the people of Rohan mingled our blood with the Mearas every three generations, and thus were we made strong. We were one with our horses, one with the land. After the time of Brego such things were forbidden, and we began to dwindle--”

Éomer raised his eyebrow. “Breeding a woman with a horse? Is that the ritual of which you speak?” He scowled suddenly. “You will not say our mother--”

“I will, and I do!” Éowyn tossed her head. “Upon a highland meadow they gathered; a fine white stallion was chosen, and the best men of the éored, our father first among them. She was bred by them all-- the stallion first, then our father, then his men. All who took part were blessed by the earth, given vigor and power. I am the fruit of that union. I carry the fire of the Mearas and will pass it on to my sons.”

“Hollis feeds your vanity.” Éomer shook his head. “These words are madness.” He wondered again at this wildness in her, more likely bred of a witch’s words than of the blood of the Mearas, whatever she said. 

She smiled at him then, secretive and bitter. “Say as you will. Words, no matter how loud, will not alter stern truth.”

“That they will not,” he agreed readily, for he did not believe Hollis’s claim. They glared at one another, stalemated, neither willing to back down. 

At last Éowyn turned away and shut her book, closing the ink bottle and cleaning her quill. “You will see,” she said. “Truth is not altered by your disbelief.” She would speak no more of it.

*****

Éomer was deeply troubled by his sister’s words. He pondered long, thinking of going to their uncle, but he did not, for he did not know what to say or how to say it. He did not think Théoden could shake Éowyn from her convictions, nor did he believe any good would come of it if Théoden tried. Perhaps much evil might come of it instead. Let Éowyn be wed to Théodred if she could arrange it; let her bear him strong sons-- it mattered not whence she thought their strength had come. He judged motherhood would leave her little time for fey imaginings. 

When Éomer heard of the passing of Hollis of Morton, he was not displeased. After that he was even less likely to go to his uncle with his concerns than he had been before, for her influence over Éowyn was now forever diminished. And also Théoden was not well; his counselor Gríma remained by him day and by night, yet he was not mended. 

“Orcs are burning villages in the West-march,” Théoden summoned his son one afternoon, lying abed with a poultice upon his chest and mulled ale close at hand. “Lead forth your men and drive them out again.”

“I will.” He laid his hand upon his breast and bowed, then went out to summon the éored and provision for war.

Éomer followed after him. “I would ride with you,” he said. “I have yet to be assigned men of my own; I am unseasoned, my uncle says. Let me go with you and I will be tempered in battle.”

“My uncle has need of good men here,” Théodred frowned. “My mind was comforted that you would be among them. For if I lead the strength of our men west, who will defend Edoras in our absence?” He set his hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “While my father is ill, you are the best choice for that. Someone of the royal line must remain to take command, should he falter.”

“Ever the strategist and wise counselor,” Éomer teased him. “And yet you are to be at the forefront of battle while I, the true warrior of our house, sit at home currying horses!”

“I could command the defense of Edoras!” Éowyn intruded herself on their conversation, pale and indignant, roses of blood bright on her cheekbones. “I am of the House of Éorl! I am as much a warrior as either of you, and a better master of my horse!”

“She is right in her last claim,” Théodred chuckled, rueful. “She can outride us both.”

“I am a warrior too!” Éowyn insisted, one hand on her sword. “I have trained with the blade and can slay an orc.”

“We will slay many in the West-march.” Théodred looked grim. “Remain here, Éowyn. I crave it of you as a boon.”

“If you will grant my own boon, I will stay,” she flared, but Théodred shook his head, his face grave. 

“I will make you no promise. These orcs may be only the first flakes of snow, but my heart forebodes an avalanche.” He turned to Éomer. “Watch over her well,” he said, and rode out at the head of his éored, their battle banners fluttering gaily in the wind.

Éomer marked that Éowyn’s fists clenched and her knuckles turned white, but she said nothing. She merely turned and walked away, mounting the steps to Meduseld with that same slow deliberation that so often meant trouble.

Gazing across the plains as his cousin’s men wound their way toward the horizon, Éomer judged he should gather camping gear and food and make ready his horse. His sister had made no promise to stay in Edoras, and he could not cage her to keep her here. He had not his uncle’s authority to order her to stay, and Théoden might not be disturbed lightly. Thus if he were to obey Théodred’s charge, he would be forced to accompany Éowyn when she inevitably departed to follow the éored into battle.

He made his preparations quietly, then went down to the stables, placing Windfola and Firefoot in a single stall and bedding down in the corner atop a drift of straw. Thus he was waiting when Éowyn made her way there in the dark of night to follow her cousin.

She was not pleased when he sat up and beheld her with the saddle clutched in her arms; she scowled at him.

“I will go.”

“I cannot stop you, no more than you can stop me.” Éomer got up, making a show of remaining agreeable. He fetched his own saddle, strapping it tight around Firefoot’s middle, then waiting until his horse exhaled and drawing the leather cinch a few notches tighter. “If you will go, so shall I.”

The city was all but silent as they plodded through its muddy lanes, the winds that often swept over the ridge quiet for once, so that the acrid smoke of hearthfires mingled with fog and hung thick in a drift that persisted until they were well abroad upon the plain. Éowyn kept her silence until they were free of the fog, then gave him an austere look. “I should have been born a boy,” she said.

“A flaw in Hollis’s arrangements, no doubt.”

Her eyes flashed under starlight. “You think it amusing that I am not.”

“I think it good that you are not,” Éomer said easily. “If all children were male, it would be a far less pleasant world.”

He intended the words as a compliment, but her lips thinned even more. “Not for me.” She spurred ahead of him, and set a steady but swift pace that both he and Firefoot struggled to keep as the day waxed and waned, the sun setting far to the west as they began to ascend a stony outcrop, following the trail of Théodred’s group. Slowed by the terrain, Éowyn once again spoke to him.

“You speak to me of pleasantness as if it were your birthright. You do not seem to understand it is not mine. Joy is a thing reserved for men, I deem: to come in after a day spent untrammeled and free, riding under the sun. Then to expect a clean house and a dinner especially prepared for you, that you may sit and eat it hot in pleasant surroundings, then drink ale until you are made stupid, or find a willing girl to share your bed. Exhausted from taking your pleasure, you will sleep heavily, only to do it again the next day and the next, while your wife slaves over hot fires, serves food, placates the shrewish whining of her fellow women, and struggles amidst these other duties to raise your get.”

Éomer frowned at her. “There is much skill involved in such tasks; they are highly valued. And there is joy, and even power, to be gained in raising children. I remember our mother found it so.”

“If they are so valued by men, then why do not the men share in their doing?” she snapped. “Why do you mock one another and call one another mares, should a man raise his hand to the laundering or mending of clothes, or to the preparation of food-- save only if you are encamped far away from your homes?”

“It is how we are made. Men are stronger; we must ride out and defend our homes. Women are less so-- do not make that face at me, sister, unless you are willing to wrestle me to prove my error. A simple contest, your hand and arm against mine, our elbows resting on a stout table. Who will win, Éowyn?” 

She could not gainsay him; her face turned sour. “There are other contests,” she muttered, her voice dark. “Contests of cunning and speed. Those I might win.”

“Perhaps that is so, but we do the labors to which our bodies are suited.” Éomer shrugged, helpless. “I do not like killing orcs, but it is my part, and I have peace in that.”

“For my part, I have brooded on a future over the cook-fires while I watched the horses fucking in the paddock,” Éowyn mused, using the obscenity with casual ease. “The males are very large, their cocks thicker than my arm. They fling themselves atop the mares and it seems they would crush them, flailing with their hooves and trumpeting as if they were maddened. They force themselves inside and thrust. It is brutal and over very quickly.”

“So it is.” Would she try her luck with a horse-- worse yet, alone? Éomer shifted, dread filling him; fear made him blunt. “A stallion in heat would not need much time to kill a maiden. It would rend her asunder with its cock and trample her with its hooves. It would break her body and crush her skull.”

“Not if she wore a helm.” She remained very calm. “And was swathed in padded blankets to shield her. And there must be a minder to manage the horse, to guide it forward and pull it away.”

“More of Hollis’s advice, I take it.” He nearly spat the words.

“Our mother had given birth to your hulking carcass and was thus well-prepared for the stallion,” Éowyn sidestepped the trap neatly. “She was not torn asunder.”

Éomer tried not to cringe at the unwanted mental picture. “You insist this occurred, and yet you have no proof.”

“I am proof.” 

Éomer stared between Firefoot’s ears as his mind raced, frantic to find a way to dissuade her. “You mean to venture this madness yourself.”

“In time, if it is required.” She laughed. “I have already chosen the horse. He is of the Mearas; he is very gracious and uncommonly intelligent. He will understand what I intend.”

“Try a man first, at least,” Éomer said, very dry. “And then reconsider.”

“I mean to.” She was absolutely calm. “I do not fear pain.”

“Try a smaller pain first, as well, before making that judgment.” They crested the top of the ridge and stood for a moment, choosing their path downward. Before them on the plain, Théodred’s camp was forming. Fires sprang into being, glowing against the darkness. 

“I shall.” She smiled, wicked and sly, and nudged Windfola forward. 

“We will camp beneath this ridge,” Éomer decreed, but she did not heed him and continued on, closing half the distance between them and Théodred’s camp before she slowed, then selected a small dell near a wet-weather spring, where the light of their own fire would be shielded from view and they would not have to wander far to fetch water. “It is as good a place as any.” 

“A good campsite, as my lord wanted,” she said, and Éomer felt himself flush with anger and shame. He was quiet as they unpacked their saddlebags, and did not ask her to heat water for stew. Instead they ate cold bread and cheese before rolling themselves in their blankets beneath the clear sky. He turned on his side and lay watching her, her eyes open and searching the stars, for a long time before he succumbed to sleep. 

*****

He wondered in the morning if she had slept, but she seemed fresh and well-rested, arising with the dawn and quickly readying her horse. For the first time, Éomer looked on her youth and felt old in comparison to it; he had not slept well on the cold and rocky ground Perhaps he should have let her choose the site for his bedding! 

Firefoot did not share his disquiet, full of good grass and spring-water; he frisked as they set out, tossing his head. 

“They want to catch up to the others.”

“Théodred’s scouts will be aware of us soon, if they are not already,” Éomer said. “We should have remained beneath the ridge.”

“What will he do?” she asked, unconcerned. “He can hardly escort us back to Edoras; there are orcs to battle in the West-march.”

Théodred did not send scouts; he came himself without escort, his horse ambling easily across the plain.

“I should have known,” he said when he was near to them. Brego snorted, glad to greet his stablemates. “Is it the both of you, or only one, who defied me?”

“You gave me the charge of her. I must follow her if I were to keep my word.” Éomer shrugged, not entirely displeased to be reunited with his cousin. His company would be more agreeable than Éowyn’s, given her fey mood.

“I am not a thing to be given in charge.” Éowyn’s eyes flashed at them both. 

Théodred sighed. “The two of you will be my undoing.” He shook his head. “You may as well join the éored. We have been aware of you since sundown.”

“When milord displayed his cunning at the hunt by allowing us to be silhouetted against the top of an exposed ridge before night fell,” Éowyn said lightly. 

“These are our friends, not foes,” Éomer exploded, and subsided at once, again angry and ashamed. 

“As you say, milord.” She made a creditable attempt to curtsy in her saddle, and Éomer rolled his eyes. Théodred covered a snicker with his palm, turning it into a cough and smoothing his face before removing his hand. 

“Such shrewishness ill-becomes a lady,” Éomer muttered as they rode forward.

“It is mine to choose how I will comport myself. I care not for your opinion of whether I am found becoming,” Éowyn said, but she cut her eyes at him and they rested on him for a long moment, unreadable. Then she nudged Windfola to move faster, drawing abreast of Théodred and engaging him in light conversation off and on throughout the day, riding at his side even when they joined the éored and he passed through it to lead the party.

When they made camp for the night, she joined Éomer once again, her eyes clouded with thought. “I have discerned Théodred’s plans. Perhaps you should talk with him.” She set a pot on the fire and poured water into it. Éomer watched and remained impassive; her cooking was far from the best, but there was a chill in the wind, and he would welcome hot food. “Our cousin is made to be a diplomat in Edoras, not a warrior,” she said, very quietly. “Ever he has preferred his books to the field of battle. Leave him in Edoras, and he will grow old and wise. Put him on a field with orcs…” she shrugged, eloquent. “He should be a great king full of learning and wise counsels and you his general, his war-leader.”

“The powers grant it will be so,” Éomer said.

“We must shepherd him in this,” Éowyn insisted. “Tomorrow you must ride with him and discuss his plans for war.”

“What have you heard?”

“He means to blunder about until we locate the orcs, then fight them at once, charging at once into open battle.”

“The reports said their numbers were not great,” Éomer said. “Our men will easily dispatch such small groups.”

“Our reports may be false.” She shook her head. “We should send scouts ahead-- stealthy men, sly and careful, and await their return before making war.”

“That will slow our arrival and orcs may kill more of our people while we delay.”

“There are a hundred and fifty men in this éored.” Éowyn tapped her teeth with her fingernail. “What if the orcs are two hundreds?”

Éomer hesitated. “We will be equal to them, of course.”

“What if there are five hundreds?”

“That is why Théodred desired you and me to remain safe in Edoras.”

“It is why we need to be here,” Éowyn countered hotly. “And it is why you should not follow Théodred blindly, even if he is thirteen years your elder. Use your wits, Éomer son of Éomund! You will not always be among friends.”

“Come now, what cause have we for raised voices?” Théodred interrupted them, his hands outspread. “Éomer, I would take counsel with you. Our war plans are still unformed, and I would have your advice in making them.”

Éomer gave Éowyn an arch look; she merely shrugged and stirred the stew, bending away from them-- so that her shapely bottom would be presented to Théodred, Éomer noted with wry and helpless humor. 

They conferred, over dismal bowls of stew; Théodred was familiar with Éowyn’s cooking skills of old, and did not falter from the food, though he had brought dried meat and bread, and he and Éomer shared the loaf between them, making the stew tolerable, if not enjoyable. It sat warmly in Éomer’s stomach when it was finished, and for that he was glad.

“What think you of sending scouts forth before us?”

“I would send them when we are within two days of the boundary into the West-march. Send swift men and cunning.” Éomer observed the flash of Éowyn’s eyes under her lowered brow as she cleaned the stew-pot. “The rest of the éored will ride forward and meet with them again before we encounter the orcs, so that we will know the nest of hornets before we push our hand inside it.”

“Your sister is much of a mind with you,” Théodred said, casual, and leaned back against Éomer’s saddle, resting his legs over Éomer’s own. “I am inclined to take this counsel.”

“You are wise, lord,” Éowyn said, mild as milk. Her dress fell away from her as she bent over him to take his bowl, displaying her soft white breasts before his eyes. Éomer averted his gaze in haste, keenly uncomfortable. 

“Stay with us tonight, Théodred, and be welcome,” she invited, reclining on the other side of him and propping on her elbow. “Your company will while away the hours and ease the cold.”

“I would, and gladly, but I must administer the watch, and I have yet to send my lieutenants to ensure that the camp is well-made,” Théodred yawned. 

“I shall be about my part of it,” Éomer said, and freed himself, arising. 

Théodred followed him in haste, springing up like a child’s toy wound tight in a box. “It will not wait,” he agreed, and Éowyn rolled her eyes, pouting on the grass beside the fire. 

When Éomer returned, she was still there, wrapped in her blankets, obviously awaiting him.

“Théodred is eager to have your company,” she remarked.

“Say rather he was eager to avoid yours,” Éomer muttered. He wished only to sleep and had no stomach for sparring in words.

“Then he would not have come to our fire for food and counsel, for he had my counsel the day through, and had already determined to follow it.”

Éomer yawned aggressively and flopped onto his bedroll, arranging the blankets over him. “Perhaps it is so.”

She scoffed. “You have had more than your share of ale. I can smell it on you.”

Éomer grunted and turned away from her, hoping for rest. 

“Sleep then, and if there are no men fit to watch over the camp, I will do it,” she needled him, then let him subside.

*****

A day hence, Théodred sent out scouts; one day more and the scouts returned with sober news, finding them as they encamped not far from Helm’s Deep.

“There are many orcs, though they travel in small bands and may not easily be counted,” one said. “Several townships have been raided in one day, several hours’ march apart. I believe it there may be two hundred or more of the beasts. If we can come upon them when they are separated, we will fare well. If not….”

Théodred scowled and turned his gaze to Éomer. “I will send your sister home with tidings.”

“And leave her to journey alone, abroad in the wild with orcs at hand?”

“She is sly and has much craft in hunting. She will win through with you at her hand.”

Éomer frowned. “You require my sword, my cousin, now more than before.”

“As I could use hers, had I the mind to risk her in battle.” Théodred fixed stern gray eyes on Éomer’s face. “Théoden-King will approve this choice more than any other.”

“She will not go.”

“Then I give you leave to tie her and fling her over your pommel in a sack.”

Éomer pursed his lips and whistled, soundless. “Should I do that, she would place a knife in both our backs before the new moon.”

“I understand that she pursues me out of a child’s innocent crush--”

Éomer snorted despite himself. “I think you understand her not, cousin. She pursues the éored because she means to fight at our side. She would be a warrior, not a female at all, had she her way in the thing.” He leveled a finger at Théodred. “And she is far from innocent, as I think you know!”

“She is yet a maid. I have not touched her, and her eyes go nowhere else.”

“She is willful. Our parents might have guided her if they lived, but she has run wild in their absence.” He thought of Hollis. “She has listened to false guides and poor counsel.”

“She has a great heart and is wild as an unbroken horse,” Théodred agreed. “Requiring some great event or will to tame her.”

If it could be done at all. Éomer had his doubts. “A greater will than mine.”

“Greater than mine, also,” Théodred sighed, rueful. “We might hope to trick her homeward.”

“We might ask the sun to cease in its course and stand still at noon, as well.”

“We could send her to scout and have her return to us with information rather than engage in battle.”

“That would increase her risk in the field and would not exempt her from battle when we confront the foe.”

“Not if we sent her to scout behind us,” Théodred mused. “I will send out an agent with instructions to prime a local with tales that the orcs have circled behind us, then send her to discover the particulars. She will be well back from the field and safe when we engage in battle.”

“Such a thing might work,” Éomer admitted. “Once. She will not trust fully in your orders again, even if you are in earnest.”

“The next time she will be safe in Edoras. I will beseech my father to ensure it.”

Éomer shook his head at that, unhappy. “She will not be inclined to forgive or forget.”

“She will be alive.” Théodred’s voice hardened. “That is my wish.”

It occurred to Éomer that Éowyn might rather die honorably on the field of battle than be imprisoned at Edoras, but he did not speak his thought-- for her safety was his wish, as well, and he could not bring himself to believe it was a selfish one. She did not know the peril and ugliness of war. Let her be shielded from it and return home in safety.”

And so they sent Éowyn toward the Deeping Coombe as they marched on toward the Fords of Isen, and she slipped away invisibly, repaying Théodred’s faith in her scout-craft. 

The orcs were many, and a number of them had assembled by the Isen; they joined battle that same day, and the men of Rohan fought long into the night under a waxing moon. They sustained many losses, and in the night they were scattered, Éomer fighting at his cousin’s hand. Théodred suffered a wound to his thigh and when the moon set, they were forced to flee the field, Éomer carrying the king’s son on his own back, for their men were scattered and their foes along with them. Nothing might be done until the morning. 

Éomer took shelter on the banks of the Isen, concealed beneath a willow-brake whose weeping limbs trailed in the water of the river, a concealing curtain of leaves between them and the far bank. Their horses were lost and he had no medicine or bandages, but there were herbs to make a poultice. Éomer found them by smell in the gray of early dawn, pounding them upon a stone and spreading them over the cut skin to draw infection from the wound. It showed no sign of orc-poison, and for that he was glad.

Éomer fell asleep with Théodred’s head pillowed on his lap and awoke with a start to find Éowyn sitting opposite him, her sword on her lap.

“There were no orcs in the Deep,” she said, very tart. “But I see you found many.” The sun was already low in the sky; Éomer had slept through the day, exhausted by his long night of battle and his flight with his cousin flung over his shoulders. 

“How did you find us?”

“You are a lummox; your marks are plain and deep. I tracked you through the tall grass. Anyone with more wit than an orc could have followed them easily, especially after you began to carry Théodred.” She turned the sword, examining its edge. “The orcs have drawn away; the éored dealt them a sore blow before you were all sundered. Our men have regrouped under Gamling. They pursue the orcs westward.” She turned her head aside and spat, a distasteful thing to Éomer’s eyes. “I bade them go on when I found your trail. They will seek us at Helm’s Deep when they return.”

“Gamling is a good captain,” Éomer conceded. “He will lead them well.” Her sword was notched, he perceived at once, and he straightened with alarm. “You saw battle!”

“I slew five orcs,” she said as if it were nothing, yet she held herself upright, shoulders straight with pride. Now that he was awake, he saw their black blood had spattered her armor. “They meant to find you and slay you both. I intervened.”

Éomer shook his head slowly. “You should not have endangered yourself.”

“I should have let you be tracked and seized as you slept, then,” she said, her chin high. “The next time I will remember your sage advice and I will keep to my bed! Fine thanks you give me for your life, brother!”

In Éomer’s lap Théodred stirred, disturbed by their voices. His lids fluttered and he gazed up at Éomer. His voice was hale, though his body was not. “Where are we and why is your sister with us?”

“We are on the banks of the Isen,” Éomer informed him, very dry. “She is with us because she spent the night stalking the orcs who trailed us. She then tracked us here with five kills under her belt.”

Théodred groaned, shifting, and groaned again more sharply, one broad palm steadying his leg. “Are we wandoughty between us, then?” He struggled, and Éomer laid a quelling hand upon his chest. 

“Speak for yourself,” he said. “For my part, I carried you many a weary mile.”

Éowyn shook her head at them both. “You may argue your worthlessness between yourselves. I am filthy and will bathe before night falls. Fetch wood for a fire, my brother.” 

She went out, shedding bits of armor, and Théodred groaned, draping an arm over his face. “Is she--” the ringing of her mail-shirt interrupted him, and a soft whump as her undershift followed, and then the jingle of her belt-buckle, the leather strap still threaded through the loops of her breeches.

“She is,” Éomer answered him, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the glimpses of bare pink flesh visible through the willow-branches. 

“I am hardly able to appreciate it.”

Éowyn had not bathed or swum in company with Éomer since his eleventh year, when he had finally insisted she leave him in the privacy owed to a growing lad in his bath. He had believed she had grown into a fitting state of modesty during the intervening years. As with so many other things regarding his sister, he had been wrong.

“Nor am I,” he answered, earnest. 

Théodred chuckled aloud at that. “I am content to be where I am,” he said. “With my dearest kinsman at my side-- though I wish I had not been wounded.”

“I believe the cut has no orc-poison in it. It should heal well.” Éomer wondered at his cousin’s contentment; perhaps the wound had fevered Théodred after all. He was babbling, giving himself an excuse for looking anywhere but at the river-- she stayed close, bending and splashing just outside the willow-screen. Of course she did. “If we had horses, I could move you tomorrow. As we do not, it may be several days before you can walk. We will have to make our way to Helm’s Deep.” He drew a deep breath. “I must gather wood and light a fire,” he said, and gently set Théodred’s head onto the sandy ground, then went out, taking care not to glance at his sister in the river.

Firewood proved elusive, as did dried dung-- there were no trees, only willows, and apparently few grazing beasts frequented this place. He gathered twigs and twisted strands of dry grass into rough sticks; it would not be enough to cook with or warm them through the night, but it might dry Éowyn before she dressed-- an act she would no doubt delay as long as possible.

He strayed rather farther than he had intended, and after a time bethought himself of Théodred, who lay alone at the mercy of Éowyn’s attentive whims. Wincing, he gathered all his burnables in a bundle beneath one arm and returned to the riverside in haste, only to stop when he arrived. Éowyn was indeed inside the willow-brake, and she wore only her white linen shirt, her legs bare beneath it, which made him hesitate.

Her hands were on his cousin, removing his cock from his breeches and closing around it, and Éomer flushed to see her do such a thing, but he was even more astonished by her words.

“We must try. Both of us will have to wed, my cousin, and though it be not to our liking, who better to wed than to one another? I will make no demands of you-- only the people will expect a child. After we have bred an heir, we need not lie together again. But only try now, to see if it can be done, and afterward we may stop our hesitation and be betrothed. Then when the child is born, each of us may do as we like.”

Any answer Théodred made to this was lost.

Stunned, Éomer set aside his armload and tried to understand what he had heard. Could Théodred not function as a man? Was this true? How could it be?

“Close your eyes now and think of whatever you must.” Éowyn bent to him; her soft pink mouth closed over his half-hard cock, her lips stretching around it. She had no craft at it, Éomer judged, but determination must serve. Théodred firmed inside her mouth, his shaft slick and wet, appearing and disappearing over and over as she addressed him with a will.

Éomer swallowed thickly, suddenly too hot despite the coming of evening chill, his own cock firming in response to the vision of them together. Hot with shame, he knew he should draw away, but he could not move. His cousin’s trembling hand rose and threaded into Éowyn’s hair, directing her to move faster and changing the angle of her head. She made a small, stifled murmur and braced herself on one hand, wrapping the other around his cock, stroking with all her persuasion.

“Now,” Théodred gasped at length, and she mounted him in haste, settling herself over his shaft. 

Éomer watched her set her jaw and sink her teeth in her lip. Théodred steadied himself with his fist as she bore down, and she took him inside her body without so much as a cry, though it clearly pained her. She settled, taking a deep breath to steady herself, then began to ride, hard and quick; he tilted her forward, his eyes still squeezed tight-shut, and lifted his hips very slightly upward to meet her.

“Be still,” she scolded. “Your leg will pain you, and you will not be able to finish.” After that she did not speak, riding him hard in silence.

Éomer’s cock felt like white iron in his breeches, bound by an unyielding seam, and he longed to free it, but guilt stilled his hand. Surely he was damned for responding as a man to the sight of his kin together-- of hardening to the vision of Théodred’s slender cock vanishing inside his sister, for coveting the sight of her white thighs flexing as she rose and fell atop Théodred’s cock, and for noticing the hard buds of her nipples against the thin fabric of her shirt, or the snap of her braid as she fell forward in her riding-- and the way it slid over her shoulder, sinuous as a snake, to lie draped over the taut muscles of Théodred’s straining belly. 

“It is no use,” Théodred gasped, and a moment later his cock slipped from her, half-hard and rubbery. Éowyn pursed her lips and arose from him, smoothing her shirt down along her legs. 

“Then we will try another way,” she said, and bending over him she wiped him tenderly with a cloth, tucking him away inside his breeches when she finished. 

Éomer sank his teeth in his lip and tasted blood; her sex was turned toward him, and the shirt was not long enough to cover her. Her delicate petals of her were all exposed, her maiden’s blood smeared on her thighs. Between her legs, she was the same delicate color as the throat of a sea-shell, with a golden fringe only a few shades darker than her pale hair. His cock strained toward her with shameful lust, all the blood rushing from his head to fill it; he flicked his wrist to adjust himself, agonized by the constriction. Partly freed, it thrust up with pride, struggling against the placket of his breeches.

“I am sorry.” Théodred’s voice broke. “I tried.”

“I know what it is you want.” Her voice was steady. “I shall get it for you.”

“Éowyn--”

“Do not try to forbid me.” Her voice was stern. “Lie still. I will go to see what is keeping Éomer. The sun sets; we must have a fire.”

Éomer scuttled away in mortified silence before she could emerge, his cock still a burning brand inside his breeches. He could not flee far while burdened as he was, so he dumped his load amidst the grass and turned himself to face a willow trunk, his hand over his cock.

“Can a man not take a piss in peace?” he tossed over his shoulder as she emerged from the brush and discovered him. “There is the best I could find for burning.”

“We will all have to share our blankets, then.” Éowyn snatched up the bundle and went away with it, leaving him to stare down at himself in dismay. His cock mocked him, stiff and unyielding. He could not imagine a more unsettling notion than sleeping curled up with the two of them after what he had just witnessed, but it must be as she said, or they would suffer cruelly in the chill. 

Cursing quietly to himself, Éomer took his rebellious member in hand and stripped his hand along it with efficient speed, bringing himself off against the trunk of the tree as quickly as he could, then emptying his bladder. 

It promised to be a long night.

*****

“I will take first watch,” Éomer said, entering the campsite and beholding Éowyn at work lighting the fire-- still wearing only her shirt, which would not do much to warm her. The sun was giving its last, the final golden rays of the day stretching across the gap of Rohan to light a few high spots along the river. Fast-fading, they soon died away, leaving deepening gloom.

“We are low on food,” Éowyn said. “The two of you carried little into battle, and I did not have time to stop for more provisions.”

“I set snares in rabbit runs as I hunted for wood,” Éomer said, keeping his face neutral. “Tomorrow if we are lucky we will have meat.” He considered. “If we can build enough fire to cook it.”

“There is not much here that is good for long, hot burning,” she agreed. Her flint brought forth a spark and she husbanded it carefully, gradually adding grass until she had a small but cheerful blaze. 

“I will wander farther abroad tomorrow. There are clumps of trees scattered here and there on the plain.” It would give him an excuse to escape and think over what he had heard. “I will bring back enough wood for a good, hot fire.”

“It takes so much wood to cook meat,” she agreed, but he perceived her mind was elsewhere. He thought, unwilling, of her taking Théodred inside her body without so much as a whimper-- her whole manner practical, resolute. Other girls were known to weep when they lost their maidenhood. Not so much from the pain of it as the change from maiden to woman, he thought-- they wept for an innocence lost, a childish purity they could never regain. Éowyn showed no sign of doing likewise. Perhaps she had already wept her loss long ago.

“Put on your clothes,” he said roughly, and he waited for her to open her mouth to launch an indignant protest before he continued, interrupting her before she could speak. “It grows cold.”

Her mouth shut again, and her lips pursed in anger. She jerked on her breeches with swift, furious motions. Inside the brake Théodred’s eyes gleamed at them, but he did not speak.

Éowyn prepared bread and cheese for him, giving him a larger portion than the one she and Éomer were to share. He would need food for healing, so Éomer did not speak against the division. 

“When I go, you will stay here.” Éomer shuffled through the pile of her armor, pulling out her sword and putting it over her lap. “You will guard Théodred, should orcs return.” That should satisfy her need to play at being a warrior and keep her from following after him when he urgently required time alone to think.

“The orcs are many leagues from here, and they fly westward and north. Toward Orthanc,” she said.

Éomer frowned. “Then let the wizard deal with them.”

“The wizard breeds them.” It is Théodred’s voice, unexpected. “Our spies have said it is so.”

“These are dark tidings,” Éomer said slowly. “Why did I not know of them?”

“You command no men. Yet.” Théodred raised himself with painful labor and began to eat his portion. “You will before the year is much older, I judge. You have shown yourself steady and true in battle, and we will need many trusty leaders of men now that Saruman has allowed his troops to pass over the Isen to raid our lands.”

“I knew of this,” Éowyn said softly. “For I have eyes and ears, and I am not fooled by sweet words in the mouth of a serpent.”

“My father said much the same before he fell ill.” Théodred’s face clouded. “I mislike this sudden frailty. He is still hale, yet he creaks and groans as one twenty years his elder.”

“The last winter was a hard one,” Éomer said.

“Not that hard.” Éowyn shook her head. “And he was well until the coming of spring, when his servant Holtwine took a wife and departed with her to Aldburg, leaving Théoden-King in Gríma’s charge.”

“I do not like Gríma,” Théodred agreed. “Yet my father values him.”

Éowyn drew closer to the fire; Éomer thought she shuddered. “Gríma has ambitions to rise far beyond his station.” She did not explain.

“Gríma is not comely,” Éomer agreed. “Yet a homely face may often ride over a true heart.” 

They stared at him wordless, and he relented. “I like him no more than you,” Éomer admitted. “He was a sly even as a child in the westfold, it is said. Ever he was given to well-crafted tales of innocence when things he was set to guard went missing.”

“Gríma whispers often to Théoden-King. I have seen it when I wait upon my uncle in the mead-hall. Their heads are so close together I have not been able to hear what he says.” Éowyn lifted her chin, looking up at the first stars of the evening. The fickle play of the firelight made her pretty face seem gaunt and worn, burdened with cares far beyond her age. 

“We will have to watch him,” Théodred said. “And find out what he is about. Mayhap my father could use a wiser counselor, and Gríma may be assigned elsewhere.”

“Théoden-King will hear no word spoken against Gríma.” Éowyn lowered her head to stare into the fire, her eyes troubled. “The two of you ride far and wide; you are busy with your battle training and with the affairs of men. I have sat idle in Meduseld perforce; I have watched them speak together as the long summer waxed and waned. It will not be easy to remove Gríma from the king’s side.”

“My uncle is no fool,” Éomer protested. “He would not fall for the blandishments of a servant’s sly flattery.”

“And a wizard would not breed orcs, nor allow them to cross the Isen and raid among the dwellings of Rohan,” Éowyn said, dry. 

Éomer grimaced. These words troubled him deeply, and the troubles they raised seemed to have no solution.

The fire sank low, Éomer’s braided sticks of grass fading fast to feathery ash. He rose abruptly. “Sleep,” he told them, gruff. “I will keep watch.”

“Wake me when the moon rises,” Éowyn said, her voice sharp. “You will do us no good if you fall asleep on the plain tomorrow instead of returning with wood.”

Éomer did as she said, though it galled him. 

*****

Éomer awakened early, when dawn light dazzled against his closed eyelids. Théodred lay still in his arms, the two of them curled close together, Éomer lying next to his uninjured side. Éowyn stood without, her back to the river, gazing toward the east. 

“There is a cloud over the dawn,” she said softly. “A reek rises from the mountain of fire beyond Minas Morgul.” She turned away from it. “There are no foes on the plain for many leagues on end. I can find no rumor or threat in any direction nearer than Mordor-- or Isengard.” Her eyes narrowed. “I will journey with you to fetch wood. We have no horses, and one cannot carry enough to serve.”

Théodred stirred, and Éomer helped him rise, guiding him away to relieve himself. 

“She is right,” Théodred said softly. “I have begun to mend. I can defend myself if pressed, but I believe it will not be needed. Take her, or she will follow you unbidden.”

“That I will believe,” Éomer sighed. “When did my sweet young sister become so ungovernable?”

“When none were by to govern her.” Théodred chuckled, rueful. “Have a care for yourself, Éomer. I like not the gleam in her eye. I hope you will not blame me for her wild scheming.”

If he had not eavesdropped upon them, he would not have taken the warning seriously-- but he had, and he would. “I like it no more than you,” he confessed. “I will blame none but her-- and perhaps Hollis of Morton. Would that I had paid more attention to the witch’s whispering to my sister while she yet lived!”

“I too.” Théodred clapped his shoulder, reassuring. “Yet we cannot mend eggs that are already broken and baked in a pie.” 

“We cannot. We can only tend the henhouse more carefully henceforth,” Éomer said with a wink.

“Do not let Éowyn hear you speak thus, or she will geld you,” Théodred laughed aloud. His hand lingered on Éomer’s shoulder while Éomer attended his own need, and then they hobbled back to the camp together. Éomer saw Théodred well-settled there in the concealing willow-brake with a skin of water and his sword within reach before he set forth with Éowyn at his heels across the plain toward a nearby copse.

*****

“I know now I could do as our mother did,” Éowyn told him at length, and Éomer winced; the notion had become an obsession with her. 

“Why do you dwell on these things?” he asked, plaintive. “If they were ever so, surely that is no cause to wish them to come to pass again, especially not upon yourself.”

Éowyn shrugged, striding across tufts of grass, working hard to keep pace with his longer legs. “I could do it,” she said, watching him carefully from the corner of her eye. “I could lay myself out before the men of the éored at need and let them take what they would. All of them. It does not frighten me.”

Éomer shuddered away from the thought. “But why--” he stopped himself; he did not truly want to hear more of her reasons. 

“I would do it for any reason I wished!” she snapped. “Perhaps merely because it would give me pleasure!”

“That is a fool’s talk.” She had not seemed to take pleasure in coupling with Théodred-- no more than Théodred himself. Théodred had made no effort to give her pleasure. Perhaps he had had no more notion how to please a woman than Éowyn had known how to please a man. Éomer cursed himself for the perversity of his mind, setting the thought away.

“Is it?” she spoke through clenched teeth. “Tell me, brother. If a beautiful woman laid herself out before you and your fellows, would you turn away from her in pride and say that to take what was offered was a fool’s act?”

“That is different.”

“It is not!”

“It is, for I could not conceive and bear a child of such a heartless coupling.”

“Ah but you could. Any child a woman might bear of such a union could easily be your own.”

“And yet I would not carry it, would not give birth to it in blood and pain and die of it as Elfhild did. I would not struggle if I lived to feed it and to protect it from the contempt of men who knew it had no proper father to claim it, only a slut of a mother to blame for its birth!” His temper got the best of him, and he reined it in with difficulty.

Éowyn’s smile took on a bitter edge. “I need not conceive a child unless I choose.” She reached out and seized the dried crown of a wild carrot, putting the stem between her teeth. “The seeds of this dried flower will prevent it, Hollis told me--”

“Hollis of Morton, always!” Éomer stopped short, enraged. “An accursed witch and a poisonous counselor who has corrupted your mind! She has taken my innocent sister and replaced her with a hoyden who muses on giving her body to a multitude of men, to horses even, and has no conscience or sense of right!” He was shouting by the end, and Éowyn’s face grew pale, hectic roses staining her cheeks.

“I care not for what you think is right!” She shrieked it loudly enough to stagger him back. “A multitude of men, you say, as if that were a terrible, shameful fate. I tell you, I would take them-- I would take them all, if I chose. I would suffer their worthless fucking as if they were no more to me than gnats on the wind. They might come to me as often as they wished. I would take their seed into me and it would fail or thrive, as I chose! When they were finished with me they would be helpless; not a one of them would be able to stand his cock again, but would know only the desire to sleep instead.” Her eyes blazed, wisps of her hair escaping its tidy braid to fan about her flushed face. 

“And what would I do then? I will tell you, brother. I would arise with their seed in me, not reduced by so much as a whit for having taken it; I would stand tall and walk away from them all, and I would laugh. Do you hear me, brother? I would laugh at them all, at all of you men, spent and used up and longing for sleep. I would mount my horse and ride free from that place, and I would regard none of them ever again, plead however they might!” She stopped, her breast heaving, in a passion of fury.

“I would do it; I would invite them all-- rather than suffer Gríma once, I would lay myself out willing for every other man in Rohan, young or old. That is what Gríma wants, my brother; I have marked how his eyes follow me. He would wed me, if he could. To wife him would be a fate worse even than to be the mistress of a rude farmer’s cot! The man is foul. He is no better than a worm.”

“Many men will desire you, Éowyn.” Éomer’s throat thickened; his words struck too close to the quick of his own shameful lust for his sister. “You are beautiful and young. But you are the niece of the king; you need not accept a commoner if it is not your will.” He reached for her shoulders, meaning to offer comfort, but she stepped back. 

“I can name one man who does not.” She hissed the words. “And he is who I will have, for I will not be made prisoner to a man’s lust and exist only to serve at his table and in his bed.”

Éomer bit his lip. “Why does Théodred not desire you? I do not understand. All are willing to see the two of you wed.”

She glared at him, eyes simmering. “You know not? Truly, you know not?” She laughed, a sound with no joy in it. “You should ask him, my brother. Stand before him as you do before me now and ask him. See what he has to tell.” She stepped up to him, expression fierce, and reached out to touch his face; he flinched from her hand and she smiled, setting her palm atop his beard when he stopped himself from withdrawing. Her thumb slid over his lower lip, slow and sure. 

“Think also on who might be foremost among those who claimed me,” she said, and turning her back, she resumed striding through the grass, chewing at the flower-head as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Cursing to himself, Éomer followed in her wake. The wood remained to be fetched, and he might not shirk the task for the sake of argument with his sister, no matter how fey she had become.

*****

Éomer’s snares yielded a brace of rabbits, and the fire burned hot and steady beneath them. Juices dripped, hissing on the coals; his mouth watered, for the bread and cheese had been eaten at lunchtime, and no more remained.

Éowyn sat across the flames, chewing a seed of grass-- she might indeed be part horse, for all her whining and nagging, Éomer thought, uncharitable. Then he repented of it and reached to turn one of the spits. 

“I have heard a rumor,” she said out of nowhere, taking the grass from her lips. “And I would ask whether it is true, but I have few who might answer me in honesty save the two of you.”

Éomer quailed from her tone; nothing good would come of this beginning. “What is this rumor?” he asked, guarded.

“That shieldbrothers long away from women on patrols or on the battlefield may lie together, if they choose.”

Éomer closed his eyes briefly. Of course she would hear of this and think to ask more of it. “All who camp lie together at times to conserve heat, as we have done with Théodred this past night,” he said, his voice short.

She watched him across the flames, a small smile playing over her lips. “I mean men who lie together as couples who are wed.” She paused and he did not answer. “Fucking one another.” Her voice was delicate and brittle, bell-like with a false innocence belied by her words.

Éomer glanced over her shoulder to where Théodred sat shielded by the willow brake, his lips pressed together, his gaze carefully averted. A suspicion began to dawn in him. Was Théodred so disposed, then, that he preferred to lie with men? It was not commonly spoken of, but it was not unknown. It would explain much.

“It happens,” Éomer said, and fed the fire. He offered no more. 

“How is it done?” She waited for his answer, merciless, and when it did not come she persisted. “Have you done it?”

“Why ask you this?”

“I have my reasons.” Éowyn took a rabbit and set her teeth in it, worrying meat from the bone. “I believe I should like to see it done.”

Éomer’s gaze jerked up against his will; he stared at her with disbelief. “You are mad.”

“Have you done it?” She wiped her lips with her sleeve, her hair tucked up in a coil behind her head-- looking and sounding for all the world like a curious lad whose voice had not yet changed. “Does it hurt?”

“It does,” Éomer cursed his honest tongue, “--I am told.”

“Who did you lie with?” 

Éomer rolled his eyes at her and took Théodred a rabbit, leaving none for himself. His appetite had vanished. 

“Did you take him up your arse like a mare or in your mouth like a woman?” Éowyn pressed. “Or did you tup him thus like a proper stallion?”

Éomer blinked at her, dumbfounded.

“It seems to me these are the ways it might be done, but I know not.” She tore a haunch off her rabbit and offered it to him. “Eat, or you will be cross.”

“It may be done with hands or by rubbing against one another,” Théodred muttered, helping Éomer not at all. “Trust a woman to think always of fucking.”

“Rather I would have said that of men.” Éowyn sat comfortably nibbling at her rabbit while Éomer mouthed listlessly at its roasted leg, more for an excuse not to talk than because he wanted to eat. “It must be convenient not to have to worry about begetting a child.”

“It is not a hardship.”

“Then you have done it,” she half-turned to Théodred, who flushed and turned away. “What is it like?”

Théodred shrugged, keeping his mouth full so he would not be expected to answer.

“Do men kiss one another? Do they speak of love? Do they make vows to stay always together, though they may not be wed?” Her eyes glistened with eagerness. “Do they swallow the other’s seed, or do they spit it upon the ground?”

“For the love of the powers, be silent,” Éomer begged her. “Such words sully your mouth.”

“Have you asked Théodred what I told you to ask, my brother?” The bell-like clarity of false innocence was back in Éowyn’s voice again, and Éomer froze, suddenly perceiving her thought, finding himself stunned by it. In the brake, Théodred ceased to chew and sat very still.

“I would watch the two of you do this thing together,” she said. “It would give me pleasure.”

“This is not a fitting thing for either your ears or your tongue.” Éomer’s voice was so harsh he hardly recognized it. “You will be silent now, or I will turn you over my knee in the absence of our father, who would surely have done so daily many years ago, had he suspected you would ever come to speak such words from the lack of such correction.”

“It is a pity Théodred is wounded, for I deem he would like to go onto his knees before you and service you with his mouth,” she said, and Éomer surged upright in a fit of wrath, leaping across the fire and seizing her braid, hauling her upright.

“You have pushed this too far,” he spat, and he shook her. “Beg your cousin’s pardon. At once.”

“Do not punish her for speaking truth.” Théodred struggled to rise and failed. “I am a craven, and I have not spoken, but she is not to blame for this.”

Éowyn’s eyes blazed at Éomer. Her lips curved; she was not afraid or wrathful, but seemed pleased, her tongue flickering out to touch her lower lip. “Will you beat me now?” she asked. “Will you turn me over your knee to do it, as you promised?”

Éomer cursed and shoved her from him. “Go out from this place and keep watch. Théodred and I must speak together, and if I discover you have crept nearby to listen, I will bind you like a hog for slaughter and drag you away. I will hang you from a tree in the copse we visited today, then return here and finish my words with him before I return to free you again.”

She went without protest, laughing, and Éomer sat before the fire, trying to steady his breath.

“She will creep back to listen.” Théodred hauled himself to the fireside. “If you would stop her, you will have to make good your threat.”

“How long?” Éomer said. He did not truly care whether she heard or not, only that she be gone and silent for a time, enough to reach the truth of this matter. 

Théodred shrugged, abashed. “It is not a thing I would have asked,” he said, quiet. “Some shieldbrothers choose it, but you were only a lad, and I old enough to have sired you.” 

“You would have to have started early indeed to accomplish that,” Éomer grunted. “But I grant you, I am many years the younger.”

“Further, you are my close kin-- and you have ever had an eye for the ladies,” Théodred said. “It was plain enough you had no interest in bedding your shieldbrothers. I would have had you remain innocent of this, but for her choosing to make it known. She made it plain she would have me, and when I wished it not she soon divined my secret, for she is fiendishly clever. Do not mistake me. For her sake I would have her; for both our sakes. We would be well-matched, for neither of us is interested in the other’s flesh, and both of us would be freed by the pretense of marriage to seek what pleasures we liked behind closed doors.” 

Éomer placed a branch on the fire and watched sparks shower upward. “She believes Gríma would wed her, if he could.”

“I doubt it not. And until I draw my dying breath, I will oppose that match.” Théodred said, his voice steely. “He is not worthy. But if she and I were to wed, we must be able to make a child together-- an heir. And I cannot, with a woman. I have tried.” He dropped his gaze in shame. “If I do not wed, the succession will pass to your son, or to hers. I am content with that. We are all of the house of Éorl.”

“Théodred,” Éomer said, his voice choked with emotion. Such things did not interest him. He reached to take his cousin’s hand. “You did not speak.”

Théodred did not speak, but shrugged and gave him a sad half-smile. “Would it have mattered if I had?”

“Perhaps so,” Éomer said. “For she is right, curse her; I am not innocent of what shieldbrothers may do together.” He cleared his throat, keenly aware that Éowyn would be listening just beyond the light of the fire. “Say not that I am not interested. Say instead that I have been guarded in my trysts with men, and that I was chary of choosing those whose tongues might wag.” He drew up his knees and folded his arms around them, gazing into the fire as he gave Théodred time to consider his words. “You are dearer to me than a brother, and I would have no objections to such a tryst-- were my sister’s fate and person not so deeply involved in the matter.” He turned their hands, and Théodred watched him lace their fingers together.

“Éowyn is a factor for careful consideration, indeed,” Théodred allowed, shaking his head with wry humor. “But in that I think you overestimate yourself, Éomer.” His fingers tightened, clasping Éomer in a firm grasp.

“In what way?” He glanced up, worried. 

“In your ability to keep your sister from anything whatsoever that she has decided she will have.” Théodred’s droll tone invited him to share in the laugh, and Éomer did, for he had no other choice than to weep with vexation or scream his frustrated wrath, and a true warrior would do neither.

Éowyn returned not long after, serene. “I see you have finished your talk,” she said. “You may begin whenever you wish.” She flopped down the fire and took up the cold remains of her rabbit, dusting a few fallen willow leaves from the meat before she took a bite. 

Éomer jerked his hand from his cousin’s, flushing to the ears. “And how would you have us perform for you?”

“You must either suck him or ride him, for he cannot take a more active part. Not yet,” she said, tossing a bone into the fire. 

“There are always hands,” Théodred said, and she scoffed at him. 

“I would rather see the other, in truth.”

“Have you forgotten I am your brother?” Éomer blustered, feeling the inevitable close in about him. 

“Did you forget I was your sister when you sneaked to the edge of the clearing yesterday and watched us together as evening fell?” Éowyn smiled, clearly sensing victory. “Were your thoughts pure and brotherly as you stood for many minutes with your eyes caressing my cunt and your cock straining at your breeches?”

“Perhaps I stared only at Théodred!” Éomer flared, a weak defense, but the only one he had. 

“Perhaps. But I think not. Do you remember Ethal?”

Éomer blushed hotly, answer enough without words. Ethal was a widow who often visited the court-- an older woman but still comely, and best of all, she was past the age of starting a child. At twenty, he had found her irresistible.

“I remember her well. My rooms in Meduseld are separated from the guest chambers only by a sitting area, you know. One night as I tarried late beside the fire, the two of you made such a noise I went to the sitting room and approached the wall where there was a chink in the mortar. I gazed through it to see the source of the outcry. I learned much.” Éowyn laughed. 

“Ethal enjoyed you that night, my brother, and I deem you rode her hard and well. You put that old mare through all her paces. I marked how she gasped and cried out at the press of your mouth on her breast; I saw you bury your head between her legs and watched her tug your hair and sob as you tongued her. I watched her savage your back with her nails and clutch her legs about your hips as you rode her; I noted how she shrieked her pleasure to the ceiling as you filled her with your seed. It made me think of horses,” she smiled, dipping her chin and looking up at him through her golden lashes.

“You are wicked through and through,” Éomer sputtered. His cock had a mind of its own, stiffening despite all he could do, a siren-song of pulsing want.

“I have said before that I do not care a whit for your judgment. Must I say it again?” She shrugged and disposed of the remaining rabbit bones. “I thought then that if ever I should take a lover, I would very much want to take one as skilled as you. Théodred will agree, I think.”

“If I do this thing-- both for the love of Théodred and for your amusement-- will you be silent and let me be?!” Beset by both their eyes and his own aching shaft, Éomer succumbed.

“I will be silent,” she promised. “For a time.”

“A poor bargain, my cousin,” Théodred warned, but Éomer was past caring. Goaded by his sister’s burning words and eyes, he turned to Théodred with desire-- doubtless just as Éowyn had intended in honing his lust with her words. 

He slipped into the brake and fetched out bedding, making a pallet for Théodred and helping him onto it. Théodred went without resistance, eyes soft with heat. Éomer handled him with great care, trying to jostle his wounded leg as little as might be helped; the poultice was taking well, but it would not do to re-injure the leg so soon after it had begun to mend.

Éomer lifted his head to Éowyn, defiant. “Men do not always kiss, if you must know, but he is dear to my heart. I do this for more than mere comfort on a cold and lonely night.” 

She nodded, her lips open, eyes rapt. 

Éomer heard her sigh with satisfaction as he parted Théodred’s lips with his own. Théodred’s arm curved around his neck, holding him close, and they contented themselves with kissing for a time. Éomer pressed his hot cock against Théodred’s good thigh, rocking by instinct there-- he could not understand why Théodred might not do so with both men and women, for flesh was flesh, and a hand on his cock was a hand on his cock. But perhaps it was not so for his cousin.

Théodred sighed into his mouth. “I have waited long for this, _minra eagna leoht. ‘Wæs him se man to þon leof þæt he þone breostwylm forberan ne mehte, ac him on hreþre hygebendum fæst æfter deorum men dyrne langað beorn wið blode_ ,’” he quoted, and Éomer laughed softly, forgetting his sister in the moment and pulling Théodred against him. 

“You would court me with poetry?”

“I would, for I am injured, so I may not ravish you and whelm you with rough caresses as I have longed to do.”

Éomer set his hand on Théodred’s cock, which rose up into it sturdily, seeming troubled not at all by the healing wound. He might have been more conscious of self, for his sister beheld them with eager eyes-- but that horse was long out of the barn. 

Éomer worked the clasp of the belt and slid his hand inside Théodred’s breeches. Théodred closed his eyes and moaned, soft but sweet. His skin was warm and faintly damp, very satisfying to touch, his cock smaller than Éomer’s own but a pleasant handful nonetheless. 

He thought of the many ways he would like to have Théodred; his favorites must be set in abeyance, but there was much he might yet do. He opened Théodred’s shirt, loosing each tie with his teeth, and nuzzled the wings of it apart, revealing his cousin’s slender, wiry-muscled chest. 

Théodred had little hair there, but he brushed his lips over what there was, seeking one of the tiny nipples-- his cousin’s color was much like his sister’s, the soft coral of his nipples a tantalizing beckon. 

Théodred gasped when he sealed his mouth there, and writhed, clutching at him, when he set his teeth in the nub and began to suckle. Éomer could tell it pained him-- a pleasant pain, the kind of sweet pain that made pleasure all stronger, so he worked the nipple with his teeth and tongue as he moved his hand, rubbing his thumb through the slick wet at the top of Théodred’s cock and smearing it around the head. 

Théodred began to whimper, his hands threading into Éomer’s hair. Through slitted eyes Éomer could see Éowyn watching, her lips parted, her breath coming quickly in her chest. Her hand went to the fastening of her breeches and hesitated for a instant-- the only evidence he had yet seen of uncertainty on her part-- before opening the laces and sliding her breeches down.

Éomer closed his eyes and focused on the nipple between his lips-- on the hitch and rasp of Théodred’s desperate breaths, of the twitch of his hips and the throb of his blood in his veins. His cock was heating up, swelled fully taut in Éomer’s hand, and the fluid welled thickly. Éomer dragged the foreskin around the tip, rubbing his thumb at the sensitive spot below the head, and bit in time with the strokes of his thumb, making Théodred keen and whine, shifting restlessly. He began to taste the salt of sweat, and he shifted his bite, making Théodred yelp as blood flowed back into the abused nipple, then was forced out again by his sharp teeth.

Éowyn gasped softly; she was pinching her own nipple with one hand, the other busy between her legs. 

He gave Théodred a slow, firm stroke-- all the way down to his balls and back up, circling over the head, then sliding down again. _When he is well enough, I will fuck him with my tongue-- we shall see if that is more than she can stomach,_ Éomer thought dizzily, and bit again, making Théodred writhe. 

“Éomer, _leof,_ ” he pleaded, his hand pressing Éomer’s head down. “Do not make me wait longer.” 

Éomer obliged him, nuzzling along his belly slowly, a deliberate tease. He dragged his lips over the head of Théodred’s cock, tongue dipping into the slit, and glared Éowyn down as he slid them along the shaft. She sat watching, heavy-lidded, her breeches about her knees. She held herself parted with her fingers, and one fingertip circled rapidly over the shell-pink bud at her center, sliding her slick across it. She gleamed in the firelight, her shirt open, sweat gathering between her small, high breasts. 

_She would let me fuck her if I wished to,_ Éomer thought-- rather, he knew-- yet he banished the urge with great force of will. He nosed along the shaft of Théodred’s cock instead, mouthing gently at Théodred’s soft, heavy balls-- they were drawn tight within their skin-purse, hot and solid. 

He nipped his way up again along the shaft-- sweetly vicious little bites that made Théodred gasp and shiver, then slid his tongue inside the foreskin to taste the musk of him. Éowyn uttered a soft sound, the first he had heard from her, a low and urgent whimper. 

Éomer opened his mouth and fitted it over Théodred’s cock, slowly pushing down, his tongue stretching the foreskin. He lifted his gaze to meet Théodred’s as he slid all the way down in a slow, smooth stroke, his skill such that he was untroubled even when Théodred’s cock was buried deep inside his throat.

Éowyn uttered a louder cry, shifting, her fingers flitting faster. Théodred’s lips moved-- his name, Éomer thought as he drew back and thrust down again, filling his mouth and throat once more. 

Théodred’s hands knotted in his hair, and Éomer let them guide him, sucking messily, his tongue lashing at every inch of skin, his teeth barely grazing the sensitive tip each time it pushed past them. Her curiosity would be sated soon-- he would take his cousin’s seed and make it part of him. But first….

Éomer drew away and raised his hand, suckling his forefingers; Théodred’s mouth curved to see it, and he slid his thighs apart, moving the injured leg with slow care. 

Two at once. Théodred clenched around his fingers with a wild cry that echoed out over the rippling water and startled a nightjar, its whirring cry ceasing with a ruffle and flutter as it launched from the branches nearby in a panic. 

He crooked his fingers and Théodred shouted again before biting his lip and falling silent, his back arching, powerful buttocks squeezing tight, his arse clenching on Éomer’s fingers. Éowyn’s panting breath filled the silence of the night.

Éomer slid his mouth over Théodred’s cock again and bobbed his head fiercely, caressing Théodred with the tips of both fingers as he slid them in and out, breathing in time with his strong strokes. He heard Éowyn make a choked cry-- then another, louder one; Théodred echoed her, pleading, and his hands tightened in Éomer’s hair, holding him where he was as his cock pulsed in Éomer’s mouth. 

Éomer swallowed, purring, holding his breath as he waited for Théodred to release him-- sliding up and milking the last of Théodred’s seed onto his tongue, then raising himself and rising to kiss Théodred, sharing it between them.

Théodred moaned, his mouth slack and hot, and let Éomer do as he would. 

“I want to taste him.” Éowyn was there without warning, pulling him away; half-mad with unsated lust, Éomer let her, her delicate pointed tongue darting into his mouth and exploring there for a long moment before she pulled away, the lassitude of pleasure evident on her face.

“It is bitter, like good ale. It is not unpleasant at all, as the others said it would be,” she murmured. 

Éomer reached and caught her-- her nape felt small and frail under his hand after Théodred’s strength; she was half naked, her small breasts exposed where the shirt fell away from her, her breeches still about her knees. 

He burned for her-- for any flesh to bury himself in, so maddened was he by the need to thrust and claim and take his pleasure. Her lips curved with welcome and she went limp for him, ready to let him do exactly as he pleased; she slid to the ground and lay waiting for him with her thighs parted, pulling one slim calf from her breeches as she licked the last of Théodred from her lips. 

He wavered, desperate, wild to have her-- his conscience screaming that he must escape instead if he wished to preserve the last tattered rags of virtue and sense that remained to any of them.

“If you run now, I will follow,” she said, her wrists falling to either side of her head, the delicate veins exposed. There was strangely, a sweetness in her face that he had long missed. “I will find you in the night when your will to flee is at an end. I will rouse your flesh and mount you before you wake, my brother.”

Éomer growled exasperation and fell on her, gathering her wrists in one broad palm and pushing them above her head. “You have tormented me until you have brought about what you wish,” he bit the words against the pale skin of her throat, ripping at the shirt that covered her. 

Éowyn laughed and he silenced her, taking her mouth with fierce aggression-- silencing it so that it might not taunt him more. Her slim legs enclosed his waist and her ankles hooked behind his thighs; she was wet and slick and hot against his cock.

She was still all but a maiden-- but she was strong and feared no pain; he lifted himself on his elbows and centered his cock against her, then drove in to the hilt.

Her head tipped back and her eyes went wide; she choked her surprised cry in her throat before it could escape. She was wet and yielding, decadent soft flesh clasping him maiden-tight. Éomer buried his throat in her neck and bit her as his hips moved, harsh and fast, claiming her hard. “Yesss,” she whimpered at his ear, and her short nails dug at his shoulders.

He sank his teeth until he tasted blood, then moved and did it again, sucking hard, marking her pale skin, asserting his dominance over her in the only way he could. She whimpered-- exultant, joyous. “Harder,” she urged him, and tightened her body so much it pained him to fuck her, but he could not stop-- glorious, agonizing bliss.

Éomer strove against the flesh that resisted him, driving in and in and in, white heat gathering behind his eyelids and in his loins. Always he had held himself back from such violent desire, fearing he might hurt his lovers, but she was his match, fierce and eager, dragging him in as if she would milk him dry-- as if she would drain all the strength from him and claim it as her own. 

He spent himself in her with a shudder; her wrists wrung inside his hand and she laughed again, triumphant. 

“Do not think you have won, sister.” His voice was thick; he raised himself from her and stared into her gleaming eyes. “For I am not yet done with you.”

He marked her as he made his way down, leaving dark purple suck-marks on one breast, worrying her nipple with his teeth until he could feel the cries she strangled in her throat. “You will yield yourself up to me,” he promised, and knelt between her legs, one hand beneath each thigh, pulling her open wide. His seed seeped from her; she was reddened and chafed by the force of him and from the touch of her own fingers.

Éomer bent and licked through the bitter-salt fluid, tongue dragging a lazy circle around the bud. She shuddered, eager, and let him do as he would.

“The doctors say women are failed men,” “Éomer said roughly, holding her apart with one hand while the other moved into position. “Their cocks and balls too weak to drop from their bodies, barely present at all.” He thrust three fingers deep inside her body as he stroked his thumb over her-- rough and callused, harsh on her delicate skin. “They cannot even produce seed.”

“The doctors are men. They know nothing compared to the wise women. They cannot bear a child,” she gasped, back arching as he thrust his fingers deep once more. “They are envious and speak in bitterness.”

“That may be so,” Éomer whispered, “but so is this-- I am your brother; I am your equal. I will break you before I finish. You will whimper and shriek for more of me; you will writhe and cry for pleasure; you will not laugh when I am done-- you will want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. This I promise.”

He bent to her, opening her and nuzzling at her slick flesh; as he did, he removed his slickened fingers from her and drove one deep into her arse. Her body stiffened, quivering. Stubborn, she did not cry out.

“That is how men fuck,” he said. “Do you like it? Perhaps not.” He licked around her center again, rough and hard; she squirmed, clenching around him. “You are a warrior untrained in this type of battle,” Éomer warned, and sealed his mouth over her, humming. 

He brought to bear every trick he knew-- one finger filling her arse, the others questing inside her farther above to find the sweet spot he knew lay within, his tongue alternating between sweetness and fierceness as she waxed and waned under him. He persisted, delaying her climax when he sensed it drawing near, guessing by the quiver and tension of her thighs clenched around his ears. He stroked her patiently, learning what she liked best and giving her that, but never quite enough, teasing and frustrating her by turns. Her breaths first broke in her throat and then turned to moans; she writhed and lifted, fretful.

“You almost make me wish I were a woman,” Théodred breathed, awed, his hard hand stroking down Éomer’s spine to his buttocks. He was rousing again and Théodred’s hand encouraged him in it, closing around him to stroke and enflame. 

“When you are well, I will remind you why you are best pleased to be male,” Éomer raised his head to promise his cousin, and Théodred laughed.

“I will hold you to that promise,” he said, and subsided.

Éowyn liked it rough, and that was Éomer’s last, best weapon. He was ready when she seized and whimpered under the pushes of his tongue, and he brought her to little peaks again and again, feeling the shudders that coursed through her go deeper, harder, drawing closer to a final, explosive ending. She writhed, whimpering, biting her arm between her straight white teeth, holding in the cries. Éomer might have smiled, slowing very gradually, making his tongue liquid and sweet and slow, driving her mad as she hesitated on the brink, pleasure burning deep into her, the eruption beginning-- then sinking his teeth into the tender flesh hard just as her climax overwhelmed her, making her buck up wildly beneath him.

Éowyn screamed, echoing in the night, and the waves of her climax broke over her, irresistible, her defenses overrun, the pleasure and pain mingling and tripling, destroying her defenses.

He would not let her rest, tonguing her until she whimpered and her hands scrabbled at his head, pushing him away; then he lifted his head and climbed atop her once more, pulling away from Théodred but turning aside to kiss him once despite her slick on his lips.

He slid into her-- her body soft and yielding as warmed butter, all resistance spent. He thrust slowly, leisurely, and rolled her nipples between his teeth as she panted, gasping. He withdrew, the softest stroke of the tip of his cock making her yelp each time he ventured it. He took his time, then slid his thumb between them, barely making contact with the oversensitive flesh, moving ever so slightly, patient, until his whole hand ached. She squeezed her lids shut, whimpering on every breath, sweat slicking her body, salty and perfect under his tongue. He brought her to bliss again, sliding her over the peak and kissing the wailing sobs from her lips, rocking himself back and forth until he, too, came and filled her again.

“If this is how I am defeated, then I am satisfied,” she whispered at last, throaty and deep, her lids heavy over smiling eyes, sweetness restored over swollen lips and kiss-bitten flesh. “And I would have you do it. My own flesh; my own blood. None other.” She sighed and nestled against him; behind him Théodred also drew close and threw blankets over the three, bedding them down by the fire. 

“But though I am beaten, I am not vanquished,” she said, her voice thick with sleep. “Your victory is not a lasting one.” She sighed and yawned, well-pleased, every part of her vibrating with satisfaction. “So we will be between us-- Théodred will marry me, and you will help him put an heir in my belly-- or you will put it there yourself, and we will raise it together.” 

“So be it,” he granted, for he could not gainsay her, and together the three of them slept. 

When the sun was high again and they rose to greet it, the wind was thin and cold from the east, and a chill mist covered the sun. Looking toward Edoras, he could not regret what they had done-- neither the night that had passed nor those he hoped to share with the two of them in days to come, but he wondered if the future would be so easy as she had planned. 

As he stood with the dew settling upon him, his heart filled with misgivings. 

Éomer swallowed them down and went to check his snares.

*****

And so it came to pass that when Théodred healed enough to walk, they returned to Helm’s deep and went thence to Edoras, where Éomer learned his forebodings were not amiss.

Théoden sat in his throne room to greet them. “You are back and whole, and it is well,” he said, seeming his old self again-- save for a distracted air, a vagueness to his wandering eyes. “Yet I fear the orcs will not be so easily discouraged; they will return again and again. We must be vigilant, for I foresee we are passing into a time of trouble.” His gaze clouded. “We must not malinger, beguiled by the comfort of hearth and home. Let the armorers practice their craft; let the fletchers collect feathers and the forges burn. Let none marry until our borders are safe once more. I grant the charge of an éored to you, Éomer; you have proved yourself in battle. Gather those who owe you and your father fealty, and I will send you forth anon. You will command our fighters in the westfold and guard our borders there. Théodred my son will patrol the West-march. So our people will be kept safe.” 

Théoden seemed to shrink when the speech was finished; from behind him Gríma stepped forth and gave him wine. 

“Wise counsel, my lord, in times of trouble.” He watched keenly as Théoden drank, and a shudder passed down Éomer’s spine as he wondered what might lie within the cup. But Théoden remained strong, and he called for food and ale.

When all had eaten-- Éomer and the other men of the court served from Éowyn’s own hands, all save Théoden-King, who took food and drink from Gríma-- Éomer went out and found his sister standing on the verge of the hill, staring out across the moonlit valley, her dress swept out behind her by the wind. 

Éomer put his arm across her shoulders. “We will yet see our plans bear fruit,” he said. “We have lived through times of trouble before. We have overcome them; will we overcome this as well. _‘Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg._ ’” 

“I hope you are right,” she said, but her eyes were troubled. “For if they do not, I cannot tell you what I may do.” The wildness was back in her eyes; for the first time he understood it was born of fear-- and perhaps of despair.

“None of us may tell tomorrow,” he said. “Yet you need not worry. What may Gríma do while Théodred and I live to protect you? Come within.” 

“I am not so sure,” she said, but he set his hand upon her waist and she let herself be led.

**Author's Note:**

> TRANSLATIONS AND CREDITS  
>  _wandoughty:_ Impotent  
>   
>  _minra eagna leoht:_ Light of my eyes. Taken from the Anglo-Saxon poem ["Juliana."](https://anglosaxonpoetry.camden.rutgers.edu/juliana/)  
>   
>  _Wæs him se man to þon leof þæt he þone breostwylm forberan ne mehte, ac him on hreþre hygebendum fæst æfter deorum men dyrne langað beorn wið blode:_ To him that man was so beloved that he could not restrain the surging of his breast; in his heart, fast in the mind's bonds, a hidden longing for the dear man burned in the blood. Taken from the Anglo-Saxon poem ["Beowulf."](http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/asbeo.htm)  
>   
>  _leof:_ Dear, agreeable, beloved  
>   
>  _Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg:_ That was overcome, so may this be. Taken from the Anglo-Saxon poem ["Deor."](http://www.anglo-saxons.net/hwaet/?do=get&type=text&id=Deor)
> 
> NOTES
> 
> The word "cousin" isn't strictly in keeping with Tolkien's treatment of the Rohirric language via Anglo-Saxon, but it would be pretty damn kludgy to have the characters say "my mother's/father's sister's/brother's son/daughter" every time, so I gave up and I'm using it. Doubtless I've made other errors in terms of using non-Germanic language choices when Tolkien would have used a more purely Anglo-Saxon or Nordic term. But I've done the best I could!
> 
> For the purposes of this story, I've treated the monarchy of Rohan much like certain RL royal families, including the British monarchs, who have through history often made a habit of marrying their relatives in order to ensure their offspring's pure lineage and patrilineal claim to the throne.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks go out to Tumblr user Kettish for emotional support and second-reading; I couldn't have done it without you! :D


End file.
